Miss Denise laughs at my anticipatory lurch.
“Please no, Miss Denise. I have told you all.”
My plea brings that smile.
“Oh, Bobby. Such humble words. If only you knew how stimulating I find it all.”
She nods to Mae Lee. There is the sound of the horrid swish, followed by the crack. Then the flesh burns and there is that discernible pause where the cerebral cortex, seemingly in denial, staves the overwhelming signal of pain. Then all fortitude crumbles and the air rushes from my lungs in a shockingly loud scream.
I thrash about within the confines of the concave bench, only my scrotal strap securing me. It is amazing how much one seems to kick about with feet and legs, as if attempting to run, to distance oneself from the torment and the heartless woman furnishing it.
Within moments, I manage to calm myself and return to the desired pose to await the next stroke.
“Very good, Bobby. As you have probably guessed, the room is not only sound proofed but there are no adjoining apartments. Nothing above. Beneath is my apartment. To the sides are more rooms belonging to me. So please do not refrain from singing for me. A nice tenor voice.”
“In Bangkok, we had some whose plaintive chorus were changed to that of a soprano.”
The comparison brings eruptive laughter. With her references, it is apparent that Miss Denise has indeed spent a pleasant afternoon at the Metropolitan Opera, Madam Butterfly of all ironies. And I think about that chair in Nurse Emma’s wash room, those virile lions being turned to tamed kittens.
Stroke number two lands on my right cheek with equal ferocity and reaction. My tears stream and Miss Denise shuffles forward to daintily dab aware the moisture. Her touch feels so good. It is oddly reassuring that she is present to guide me through my ordeal. Yet it is she who has commanded my slow execution.
After suitable pauses, there follows a stroke to the left and then to the right. It’s that timing, once again tempting the recipient to demand speed. ‘Get on with it’, I am so wanting to bellow.
Yet one dares not provoke a firm woman with a strong hand and unrelenting resolve.
With stroke five, my hoarse scream ends with slight gagging. Miss Denise’s concern results in the retrieval of the obligatory metal bowl where I am to vomit.
With stroke six, what little is left in my stomach is offered to my superiors. Miss Denise kindly wipes my chin and smoothes her hand over the back of my neck.
“We’ll go easy on the feet, Bobby. You’ll need to walk.”
‘Easy’ results in the contents of my bladder splattering to the floor. Miss Denise seems mesmerized, thrilled that her power could bring the male to such a point of crisis.
“Yes, empty yourself for me, Bobby. Consider it tribute.”
With the second stroke to my left foot all mettle dissipates and the room goes black. I am disappointed to lose sight of the alluring Mae Lee and my beautiful interrogator.
Chapter Thirty-Two
In some regards, the week goes quickly. In others, staring at my bedroom ceiling at night, trying to ignore a stiff penis which will not offer me the ultimate in gratification, it goes slowly.
Thursday, I visit Nurses Greta and Emma where I am again both mentally and physically stripped of all dignity. And all hair as wel
l, whatever stubble has cultivated. Nurse Emma enjoys the sight of my fading welts from the caning.
“Well whipped males attract,” she summarily divulges.
Then Friday comes and as commanded, I traverse the stairs to Miss Denise’s seventh floor lair of horrors.
The routine repeats, only on this visit, I have taken the precaution of partaking in a sumptuous Friday lunch, knowing that food is a rare treat under Miss Denise’s tutelage.
Sometime Saturday, the perception of time obfuscated by hooded darkness, Mae Lee releases me for a walk. I have lost track of the cycles. Not even a visit from Miss Denise has punctuated this weekend stay, and in the extreme boredom, I pine for the sound of her voice.
I dutifully follow the tugs on my collar and for the most part avoid the nasty correcting taps to buttocks and balls. Still, after several jaunts up and down the hall, I feel the padded flooring of the dreaded whipping chamber beneath my knees.
The dowels return with the familiar loops of rope adhering ankles to the backs of my thighs and wrists to biceps.
“Today you hang,” my Asian tormentress succinctly announces. “Very slow pain. You like.”